i do not adore idaho

Wheat Country

The man and his binoculars

Alight,
Perch in a pick-up truck with the
Motor running,

Peer into the heart

Of the wheat field.

Perhaps they hunt

The horizon beyond,

Pinpointing the precise location

Where canary hills brush

Rolling sky.

Aliens

Even in the breeze,
It is
One hundred and six degrees
On asphalt.

Now
There are wind farms
Among the dusty hills and fields
Groomed and whipped
Like earthy cream.

Tall,
White,
Sullen,
Sentinels of modernity,
Machines guarding against
The blaze
Of unseen wildfires.